Usually they're joyous, loving, happy tears caused by a deep resonance, an unearthing of memories, or a sudden feeling of clarity and bliss. But then sometimes they're just tears...like the words on the paper are speaking to someone I didn’t know I still knew, but remain, buried beneath the surface. Oliver's work is about connection, nature, love, and the silly peculiarities of life. I am so effected by her latest collection "Felicity" that I wanted to share a few poems that struck me as important.
Everyone now and again wonders about
those questions that have no ready
answers: first cause, God’s existence,
what happens when the curtain goes
down and nothing stops it, not kissing,
not going to the mall, not the Super
“Wild roses,” I said to them one morning.
“Do you have the answers? And if you do,
would you tell me?”
The roses laughed softly. “Forgive us,”
they said. “But as you can see, we are
just now entirely busy being roses.”
When Did it Happen?
When did it happen?
"It was a long time ago"
Where did it happen?
"It was far away."
No, tell. Where did it happen?
"In my heart."
What is your heart doing now?
The cricket doesn't wonder
if there's a heaven
or, if there is, if there's room for him.
It's fall. Romance is over. Still, he sings.
If he can, he enters a house
through the tiniest crack under the door.
Then the house grows colder.
He sings slower and slower.
This must mean something, I don't know what.
But certainly it doesn't mean
he hasn't been an excellent cricket
all his life.